The English, The French, and Pixie Sticks
by RainbowOfNight
Summary: France and England both love Pixie Sticks, but only England remembered to bring them to the latest World Meeting. England is very possessive of his candy, and when it becomes useless because of a blunder of America's, France has to keep his Angleterre from doing something he may regret. FrUK!
1. Chapter 1

**Just a little FrUK story I came up with when I was eating a Pixie Stick and watching Hetalia the other day.**

** Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

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France and England both loved the sugary sweetness that is Pixie Sticks; all of the other countries knew it and did not dare to interrupt when they were pouring the sugar into their mouths, or ask for a stick when either of them brought a bag to the world meetings. Canada had tried to ask France for one once before, and that evening had ended with him cowering behind America and crying softly while the Frenchman gripped his wineglass tightly and threatened to throw the dark liquid over the top of Canada's head.

Tonight England had brought his own Pixie Sticks, and was eating them quietly with a smile on his face as the others watched him cautiously with averted eyes from across the table. Canada had chosen the seat as far as physicality possible from the yellow-haired country, conveniently next to Germany, who laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

England seemed completely oblivious to the tension in the room he was causing, despite it being as thick as the sour milk he had once accidentally added to his tea. He was halfway through the bag, and was picking out all of the purple sticks he could find. They were his favorites. France had also attended the world meeting, and he sat a few seats to the right of England, watching with a grimace as Angleterre ate his favorite candy right in front of him. France had forgotten his own bag of Pixie Sticks at home, and was burning with desire for the candy. But he knew Angleterre would never share with him...

"All right, let's call this meeting to order!" Shouted America, rising to his feet and spreading his arms to gesture for silence. He had a glass of Coca Cola resting on the table next to him, and as he lowered his arms, his elbow sent it down on its side, the soda spilling in a spreading puddle across the surface of the table... and unfortunately, onto the sleeve of England's jacket.

The other countries tried to stifle their laughter as England jerked his arm back with a curse, and America blinked with surprise from behind his glasses, as if he couldn't comprehend what he had just done. France, however openly roared with laughter, a smirk coming to his face. He watched the other country try to hoplessley brush the soda away from gray wool coat. The sleeve was already saturated with the dark liquid. "Problem, Angleterre? It shouldn't be. You're still just as beautiful covered in soda as when you are not. I know, I shall buy you a new jacket. You'd look wonderful in purple silk, me amour."

England raised his eyes in a stare that made children fall to their knees and scream for their mothers. France glanced over at Italy, and saw the small country about to to do the same thing and scream for Germany. He was gripping the edge of the table tightly and staring at the tall blond-haired man watching Angeleterre with mild interest.

"Cheese-loving bastard!" England shouted. "This was my best jacket! I'd think someone as vain as you would understand that." At that moment he saw his Pixie Sticks on the edge of the chair where he'd been sitting. The plastic bag was spotted with droplets of soda, and the colorful paper sticks inside were damp and inedible. "Damn you America!"

America backed up a few steps with his hands up in surrender. "Woah, man. Take a chill pill."

This sent England into a rage, and looking at the useless bag beside him seemed only to add fuel to the fire. He leapt at America and knocked him backwards onto the floor and the two went rolling in a frenzy of kicking and scratching.

"They're like kitties," Italy said with wonder.

France sighed. He understood England's anger over his ruined jacket and the loss of his Pixie Sticks, but he wasn't going to let America get clawed to bits over it. He did have every intention of buying his darling Angleterre a new jacket, one more lavish than his best one, and as many Pixie Sticks as he wanted, even if he had to carry him to the store kicking and screaming. It wasn't just for Angleterre's sake; it was for his own. He had been waiting for a chance to spend time with the Englishman.

He walked calmly over to the warring pair and grabbed the back of England's jacket and yanked him roughly off of America, who ran to shield himself with the back of his chair. He peeked cautiously out from behind it, and a low snickering from China could be heard at the sight.

"Let me go! I swear he dies tonight!" England pushed at the hand that was gripping his jacket without result.

France ruffled his hair and leaned in closely, pushing a yellow strand out of his fiery eyes. "It is only candy, darling. I will buy you more. Besides, you are much sweeter than sugar."

England blushed at this, and turned his face away to hide it. Truthfully, there had always been something about the Frenchman that he... liked? He didn't know how to descrivbe the feeling. All that he knew was that at moments like this, his disdain for the other country faded, and his heart fluttered as if it were a bird with wings, and France the wind that made it soar. Was there ever really any disdain in the first place?

France laughed softly at the pensive expression on Angeleterre's face, and he took the opportunity to scoop him up into his arms. Angleterre blushed even redder than before. "What the hell are you doing?" He whispered as France carried him casually over to the door. The other countries all either watched with shock or broke into uncontrollable smiles.

"Taking you shopping," France said, and placed him on his feet to open the door.

England didn't dare look up to see his friends and allies faces. He wondered if shame was an excuse for not coming to the next meeting. He was basking in his embarrassment when France bent down slightly to kiss him lightly on the cheek and ruffle his hair. "Purple silk, definitely," He exclaimed.

"Bastard."

France pressed his lips gently to the side of England's throat and led a trail of warm kisses up his neck . England shivered with pleasure, and he tilted him back like they were dancing. And they did dance, twirling each other round and round, with France often dipping his Angleterre inches from the floor and pulling him up to be held against his chest like the most precious of things again. There was no music to be heard, and yet the air was filled with it, a silent song that played with smooth and flowing notes from the stereo of their hearts.

France wrapped an arm snugly around him and pulled him quickly out the door, leaving a group of stunned and wide eyed countries in their interrupted world meeting.

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**I just love FrUK! My first real attempt at writing it. I hope you all enjoyed it. As usual, critisism is awesome, if you guys feel the need to point anything out. I think I might have been a bit too sparse on details...**

** Review anyone?**


	2. Chapter 2

**This wasn't originally supposed to have a second chapter, but I really wanted to write about France taking England (or Francis taking Arthur, if you prefer) out shopping. **

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The store was obnoxiously luxurious, with pastel colours jumping out at you from every direction and stunning pieces of jewelry and clothing on display. It smelled like a mixture of various perfumes, and a cloud of vanilla mist hit England in the face as France pulled him by the hand through the door. He was led immediately to a rack of silk shirts with pearl buttons, and France shoved a green one into his hands.

"Try this on, mou chere," he urged, pushing him towards the entrance of what appeared to be a dressing room. The sign was written in curling cursive French, and England had never learned how to speak the frog's language. He knew a few phrases, but not nearly enough to be any use.

He planted his feet firmly on the polished wood floor. "No. That's not my style, frog, and I'm only here in the first place to avoid the embarrassment of being in the same building with the others. They're probably laughing among themselves right now..."

France patted him on the back, and slyly spun him around, pulling his stained jacket off in the process. England gasped, and teetered on one foot before falling backwards... into France's arms. The other country caught him expertly, as if he was used to this sort of thing, and helped him to his feet, leading him with soothing words into the dressing room hall. Yes, the store was so large it actually had a _hall _with rooms used only for changing.

"You will look ravishing, I promise. I may even have to ravish you myself. We'll get you out of your boring usual clothes and make you look extravagant."

"I feel like a dress up doll..." he muttered, watching sadly as France stood guard in the doorway, his shadow falling into his own. The man and his blue velvet cloak was the only thing between him and freedom. He sighed when he realized that he wasn't planning on moving, and went to find a free dressing room, which wasn't hard, considering the large amount of them.

The shirt was soft to the touch, and it did feel nice against his skin. It had sleeves that tapered nicely at his wrists, and the pearl buttons did complement the green. He had to admit it was a lovely garment, but his face paled when he looked at the price tag.

"Five hundred dollars...!" What was it, spun of golden thread?

He hated the fact that he actually liked the shirt, and looked at it again, trying to lower the quality of it in his mind. He had a hard time finding faults with it. It wasn't the right size, however, there was that. Maybe they were all out of his size anyway. The shirt hung awkwardly on him, far looser than it should be. It made him look younger somehow, more child-like.

"Angleterre, are you almost ready?" France called suddenly. "I want to see how it looks."

England sighed heavily, and opened the door and met a smiling France at the doorway, pulling at the shirt nervously. "I think we should go," he said, mustering some confidence. "I have things to do." This was getting to be too much for him, and maybe by some miracle France would be satisfied with just trying on one thing.

No such luck. "Excellent," the blond exclaimed, looking him over. "But it's the wrong size. Merde, Angleterre, your too small to find clothes for so easily. You're worth it though."

He blushed furiously, and tried to ignore how... attractive France looked in the stage lights that shone from the walls beside him. His yellow hair was combed to shiny perfection, as usual, and his eyes had a mischevous sparkle to them. His clothes fit him perfectly, England noticed with a grimace. His pant legs disappeared into his low boots, and they hugged his legs noticably. His jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the white dress shirt underneath. He'd always felt somewhat drab by comparison, with his neutral colours and simple dress shoes.

"Come," France said, and England followed him back to the same rack of shirts as before. France went through the rows of shirts, giving an "Ah!" of approval when he pulled out another green shirt. He removed the hanger and tossed it over his shoulder, and then grabbed the sleeve of the shirt England was wearing and began to unbutton it.

"W-What are you doing!?" England yelled, as the shirt fell to the floor and he stood before the other country with his torso bare and his heart beating like a drum in his chest. The breeze of the air conditioning was cold against him, and he shivered. He was never very muscular, and he was painfully aware of that as he stared at France as the nations eyes wandered over his blonds hair was pulled over one shoulder, away his face.

He saw that France was sweating, a small liquid bead traveling down his forehead. _Is he nervous? _Whatever it was that was bothering him, he pushed it away and began to put the the new shirt on England, doing the buttons carefully, with no haste at all in his movements. "This store closes at four o'clock today. No time to keep going back to the dressing rooms."

Normally England would have complained, said that he could very well dress himself, but he stopped the words from coming, not entirely sure why. He let France adjust the shirt, and this time, it fit perfectly. He tried to say thank you, but the words ended up only being spoken in his mind.

France seemed to know this, and he straightened suddenly and stared off at somewhere behind England.

England tilted his head in confusion. France was quite an enigma this evening. Then the other man grabbed his hand, and they went together to the checkout counter, where a cashier with her hair in a bun so tight it looked painful smiled invitingly at them, looking away from the paper she had been writing on.

"Can I help you?" She asked.

France squeezed his companions hand, and spoke confidently. "May I use the speaker?"

The woman looked surprised, but took a microphone from a spot hidden behind the counter and handed it to him.

"Thank you," he said, and picked up a shocked England around the waist with one arm and placed him on the cashier's counter. The woman was confused and stepped back to press her back against a marble pillar adjacent to her station. She said nothing, but followed the nations with her eyes.

France took England's hand in both of his, and placed a lingering kiss on the top. "Angleterre," he spoke into the microphone and his voice echoed throughout the store like the reverberation of the liberty bell in America. "Mou chere, I have an engagement at a café in a few hours time, and I do not wish to go alone. You are coming with me, whether you like it or not."

England stuttered, searching for a response, but he couldn't find one. Instead, he settled for pushing himself off the counter and onto France. They both fell back onto the floor, France grunting as he cushioned his fall. He was staring up at the smiling Englishman on top of him, and he touched his neck and massaged it gently, working his fingers into the muscles. He pulled England down, until their faces nearly touched, and their lips met without protest from either.

France's were soft as the silk of his new shirt, and England relished the feel of them. They was a connection between them he couldn't explain, unbelievable and sweeter than anything he'd ever felt before. They had started something here, and England intended to explore every crevice and cranny of it, to put a name to it, and above all, to let himself feel it, to sink into this emotion that felt a lot like he thought love was supposed to feel.

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**That was fun to write, I've gotta say. **

**Anybody feel like reviewing? There always nice to read, whether you liked it not. Criticism is OK, it helps with improvement. :)**


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